


Darkest Before the Dawn

by dynamiteinherhair



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamiteinherhair/pseuds/dynamiteinherhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a seldom-frequented chamber lies a portrait of a young Goblin Prince. It was never commissioned, and the prince never sat for the painting. The origins of this hidden artwork are unknown, the artist never credited. During broken nights, the Goblin King looks upon the evidence of a past he hoped to forget, but, in search of a new future, he must go back before he can go forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth, Jareth or Sarah, I just enjoy writing about them
> 
> A/N: Originally inspired by a prompt over at the Labyfic LJ Comm, The Portrait of a Young Man

 

**Chapter 1 - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream**

It began with the dreams, always the dreams - so vivid they roused him from sleep during countless interrupted nights.

His waking world was grey and sandstone and dust. He valiantly rallied and strived for colour and imagination, as in the days when the Labyrinth was frequented by runners - those naïve enough to imagine that wishing their pesky younger siblings away would have no consequences - yet all remained predominantly monochrome.

Until the dreams.

And the Girl.

She filled his mind with vibrancy and illumination, and most shocking of all - she was human. He didn't know her, had never seen her before the dreams started, but he knew enough to marvel at her; she was unique.

She lived in her own human world (incidentally, quite colourful in itself) yet rarely fully resided there, for she read extensively, and adopted the worlds in those books, acting out scenes with enthusiasm which burned so brightly that she seared his mind's eyes and roused him to wakefulness in the darkest hour of night.

The monochrome was different at night - muted shades of silver and grey, more peaceful - but he could find no peace.

He paced restlessly; leaving the stifling confines of his bedchamber he proceeded without thought along an already well-trod path. He could have made this journey sleepwalking - he knew the route all too well, for it was the path to his torment.

Endless stone corridors threw echoes of his tread back at him; although he walked carefully, the sound was magnified and eerie. He moved ever-onwards, the dim corridors illuminated only by candlelight, until he reached the dark oak door, encased within heavy ironwork. He retrieved the ancient key, concealed within an almost invisible crack in the wall, where idle hands would not happen upon it accidentally, and raised it slowly. It was so old and dull that it reflected no light, and his hand trembled briefly before he found purchase on the lock.

Very little roused genuine fear within him, but the room beyond this door made him distinctly uneasy. The door swung back on creaky hinges. His last visit felt far too recent, and he hoped he wouldn't feel compelled to return for the foreseeable future.

Why he subjected himself to this, he didn't know - some deep rooted instinct drew him back, time after time, often during the darkest night hours, the loneliest hours, when all creatures, even otherworldly beings, should be lost to the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

He crossed the threshold and thrust the candle aloft, throwing its warm glow across the small chamber. Yes, it was there - of course it was, it was  _always_  there, and would always remain so, that steadfast reminder.

He advanced cautiously, entranced as the candlelight danced over the heavy-set dark wood frame, intricately carved and engraved in gold.

Funny, he could never recall where this frame came from. The canvas within,  _that_  he could recall all too well. He remembered the day, a whole lifetime ago, when it had appeared in his chamber; a startling white, blank canvas, pure as freshly fallen snow, suggesting infinite possibilities for design, colour and composition.

Those days were gone, supplanted with the distaste and horror of the months and years that followed.

Bracing himself, he shifted the candle to his other hand, holding it closer, just short of burning the painting, for, whatever feelings it inspired in him, he couldn't,  _wouldn_ _'_ _t dare_ , deliberately harm it in any way. He was too closely linked with it to risk damage beyond that which had already occurred during a life far removed from that of the Goblin King he had become.

He drew in a sharp breath as he locked eyes with the young prince in the painting.  _Like looking into a mirror_ , the Goblin King thought with irony. An entire age had elapsed since his face had resembled that immortalised in the portrait, although that he was the subject of the painting was undeniable.

The youthful face was half shadowed, but the aspect revealed to the viewer was adequate enough to reveal a great deal.

 _His (my?) expression wasn_ _'_ _t always thus_ , the Goblin King recalled, still baffled as to how the painting could alter long after it's completion. In the very earliest throes of creation, the prince's expression was softer - open, inquisitive, and beguiling.

_I flatter myself, but it is true, for those were the days before I truly knew the nature of my task here._

The knowing eyes of the prince, fathomless blue, glinted with remonstrance now, for all that had happened, all that the king had allowed in the years since he assumed full control of the Labyrinth. His mouth was set in a grim, knowing expression, and it was all too clear he did not like what he knew.

If the painted prince was disappointed, the Goblin King was infinitely more so, for he couldn't have been more accountable for that discontented, restless expression if he had painted the portrait himself. He hadn't, but nonetheless, he was it's subject and unwitting creator both. Part of him was literally  _in_  that painting, although he didn't know why. He clearly remembered the moment it started, his gradual creation of that painting, and now he wished the path had been different, or that he had changed course along the way.

Unable to face the young prince any longer, Jareth reconciled himself to mastering sleep once more, not overly eager to face down the demons of his past, or to foresee a future in which the portrait of the young prince may witness this king regaining some vestige of his earlier self-worth.

**o~o~O~o~o**

He slept.

And, inevitably, he dreamed…

It was the Girl again.

She wore a gown of flowing ivory, and walked beside a peaceful, sunlit lake. Clutching a well-read book firmly in her hand, she settled beside the gently lapping water to read. This story was new, but her enthusiasm was equal to the previous times he'd seen her. She sat alone in the parkland, and so read aloud from a tale of a troubled soul who desired to make amends.

The Goblin King awoke, certain for a moment the girl would be beside him, for she seemed closer somehow; he could make out her face and features, could almost hear her voice carry across the wind and the worlds.

He remained alone.

Although the girl wasn't real, or at least he didn't think she was, she gave him real hope - cutting through the blank, bored monotony of recent times, her wishes and dreams, her vibrancy, told him it was not too late.

_There is still time_ _…_

His resolve settled - he must revisit that painting, for the time had arrived to acknowledge the past and plot a new course for the future…


	2. A Whole Lifetime Ago...

The blank canvas appeared as if by magic in the sleeping chamber of the young prince Jareth, and he marvelled at its purity. He envisaged the time he would dedicate to perfecting his artistic talent to such an extent he would be able to do justice to this blank page. He ran reverent, slender fingers in a caress across the feather-white canvas, almost fearful to touch it lest he should mark it. He couldn't presently visualise an image grand enough to populate such a pure canvas, so he found a clean sheet, covered it over, and hauled it into a wardrobe, for safe keeping, until the day he was ready to create something worthy of it's quality.

**o~o~O~o~o**

Barely more than a child himself, even by Fae standards, Jareth was startled when his father, the Goblin King, entrusted a human child to his care.

This unexpected development occurred on one of his earliest visits to the Labyrinth, a part of their vast world he'd longed to experience himself ever since he'd been old enough to make sense of the whispered speculation about this place, and it's grandeur and magnificence. It offered such a contrast to childhood days spent concealed behind the high, guarded walls of the main royal residence. His youthful imagination painted the Labyrinth as some large scale playground, a place dedicated to wonder and amusement - every child's dream made real. In all his fantasies, never did he envisage becoming temporary custodian of a child, particularly a human child.

"But what am I to do with it, father?" he asked, bemused, holding the small creature at arm's length.

"Stay here, Jareth. Wait."

His father motioned to an elaborate clock upon the wall, and bid his son to remain watchful of the time, and be ready, as the hands marched closer to the conclusion of the full thirteen hours allotted.

With that the Goblin King departed, leaving his son literally holding the baby.

It was a creature about which Jareth was curious - he'd never seen one close up before, although he'd heard their cries resounding in the castle beyond the Goblin City. He'd never questioned their presence; it was just something that happened on occasion, and up to yet, he had never been directly involved.

At a loss, he placed the child upon a cushion, where it gurgled and beamed a huge smile at him.

The day passed uneventfully enough. Jareth learned to amuse the child, to make it smile with softly-spoken rhymes, or a floating crystal, like a bubble in the air, which held the child's attention.

Jareth glanced at the clock and noticed the hands approaching the hour his father had warned him about.

He ran to the window, then to the door, expecting someone to come and collect the child, to take it back wherever it came from.

No one came.

The clock struck thirteen.

A small guard of goblins advanced upon the room; he could hear their ramshackle bits of armour rubbing together, causing a disturbing echo. The more unrestrained peaked their big heads around the door, watching with greedy eyes.

Jareth saw the child's smile vanished and it became incredibly still. Then, faster than even his sharp eyes could follow, a great plume of billowing black smoke engulfed the cushion on which the child sat, and it vanished. Jareth edged to the window, to the fresh air, shielding his eyes.

The smoke cleared as quickly as it arrived, and in the place where the child had sat, stood a tiny, squat goblin, upon whom the small platoon advanced immediately until it was lost in their ranks.

Disgusted and horrified, thinking he had fallen victim to strange magic, Jareth cast around hopelessly, thinking how mad his father would be when he returned and learned his son had lost the baby.

For the first time, he felt fear. Upon hearing the king's approaching footsteps, he looked quickly for a hiding place, but found none, and so he stood his ground.

His father entered the room, looked at the goblin, then at his son (trying very hard not to cower) and he laughed uproariously, immensely pleased and satisfied.

Jareth looked alarmed and confused.

"Another one for us, my son, what a success!"

He clapped Jareth hard on the back, knocking him out through the door, which slammed behind him to the echoes of roaring laughter.

Jareth, confused and slightly dazed, sought the sanctuary of his own quarters, barring the door to keep everyone away.

The wardrobe in which he'd secreted the blank canvas, spurred on by the idea he may find inspiration in the Labyrinth, stood open like a gaping mouth.

He approached cautiously - the cover he'd lovingly placed over the canvas was thrown aside carelessly.

Jareth turned the canvas carefully, and looked with dismay upon the ruination, for what had been pure white was now stained irrevocably, a dark blackish purple hue which spread like hate and deception, obscuring the whiteness. The only hint of the pristine clarity lay at the centre, where a portion of the canvas remained unscathed.

**o~o~O~o~o**

And so it followed…

Time trod it's relentless track, and more human children appeared within the confines of the castle. Jareth, his curiosity more than adequately satisfied regarding the presence of the children, distanced himself where possible, but it became impossible to ignore the increasing numbers of goblins, and the sight made him sick, despite his father's reassurances that what happened here was the natural order of things.

Was this what it meant to be king?

Was this what he would be king of?

The reality of the Labyrinth was a stark contrast to the tales spun by various nursemaids who had passed through his childhood and brightened his days with their talk. Even his own mother had added to the deception, spinning a fine tale of a king valiantly ruling his great kingdom with honour.

They all neglected to mention that his kingdom would come at the price of human trial and suffering. Resistance was useless; his father was formidable, and upon realising his son's unnatural distaste for this particular custom, he forced him to become more deeply involved. He remained oblivious or uncaring of the price being extracted from his son and heir - with each final strike of that enchanted clock, Jareth experienced physical pain, so intense at times he excused himself quietly and fled in blind fear to his bedchamber, where he rifled secretively through the deep wardrobe where that once-white canvas was hidden, like some shameful secret.

He watched with growing unease as, upon the failure of each runner, and the claiming of each child, a part of his very soul was rent from him against his will and etched in oily perfection upon the dark-stained canvas.

As something was stolen from the failed runners within the Labyrinth, something was also stolen from him, some essential part of himself that he feared would be lost forever. Perfectly formed and exquisitely detailed, his canvas-based mirror image built up gradually, half in shadow, half in light, it's final aspect indefinable as it remained a work in progress. He wondered bleakly at the cruel twist of fate which placed that canvas in his room all that time ago - once he tried to dispose of it, only for it to reappear in the wardrobe later the very same day.

Outwardly, Jareth learned to hide his discomfort, for his father was easily provoked, and had little patience for thinking beyond the traditional way; it was utterly alien to him that his son wouldn't assume mastery of this kingdom when the time was right, and do it with the expected sense of unquestioning duty.

As time progressed, and more runners failed, more of his naïvely innocent nature became worked into the painting. All this made it easier for Jareth to accept his fate as future ruler, and that of all those who became entwined within the Labyrinth. To rally against it, or take it to heart, was more anguish than was warranted - this was the way things were, the way things had always been, and the way they would remain.

_That_ _'_ _s just how it is,_ he thought grimly, marking it as a lesson he would take forward and thrust onto others, whether they liked it or not, for all this had been forced onto him.

* * *

He paused from his reveries - the proud Goblin King, master of the realm, wearing only a long, loose white nightshirt, hunched over before the portrait in a dank, cold, disused chamber within his vast castle. He looked closely at the prince's expression, and recalled the dream - the girl, her uniqueness, and the opportunity it represented, and knew he must see this through to the end; he must make peace with the past to gain a different future.

He had reached the painful part now, the moment he lost the essence of all he had once been forever, the moment that care and concern left the potentially noble Jareth once and for all, and he assumed the mantle of Goblin King, and all that that implied. He had chosen a path of routine boredom and repetition that would span years without number, and led to this point, where day followed day without event or variation, for now even the runners were scarce. All had moved on, leaving him and his world behind.

Except now, there was a glimmer of hope for a new direction.

But first, he must remember the rest of the story…


	3. The End of Innocence

The fate of the wished away children no longer had such a resounding impact on Jareth; he had frequented the Labyrinth regularly, at the behest of his father, and time moved swiftly, until months became years, and he (more or less) gained his maturity. During that time, countless humans appeared to try their luck in the Labyrinth. Apparently people remained neglectfully dismissive when it came to hasty wishes regarding their siblings, and the Labyrinth reaped the results.

It happened so often that he'd conditioned himself to face it with a granite-like, immovable expression; inwardly the still-young prince imagined himself elsewhere.

Besides, the portrait - that constant torment - was almost complete. What more of his soul could be eked out? He pulled aside the cover, dirty and stained grey (it would never come clean, rather like he himself), and gazed upon it with apathy.

Once upon a time the forming portrait of the young prince - he still couldn't bare to think of it as himself - had troubled him, and seemed master of him.  Those were the days he still held on to the last vestige of innocence.

Now the prince was a benign effigy of someone that the future Goblin King used to know. Those eyes no longer offered silent judgement, and the half shadow no longer bothered him, for he had become accustomed to darkness in real life. In fact, when he looked closely, those eyes appeared slightly bland, as though there was something vital missing.

Dismissive, Jareth tossed the cover back over the portrait and hid the still-ominous thing away, for even in the depths of indifference he experienced fleeting moments of shame and revulsion, however brief. The tiresome game of the Labyrinth was on again, and he headed to the throne room, as was expected.

**o~o~O~o~o**

The child was female; a little girl with deep greeny-blue eyes and dark hair, which fell in tiny curls around her face. She had chubby cheeks and a smiling expression. Over the years Jareth had observed - first in confusion, then in wonder - all these small humans. Generally very unfinished, he didn't understand their appeal, or the reason why their fully grown counterparts endured the trial of the Labyrinth to win back what they so carelessly wished away. It mystified him.

Until this child.

The girl was inquisitive and cheeky. She turned those huge eyes upon Jareth without fear or suspicion, and giggled loudly, gurgling noises issuing forth. She overbalanced on the little cushion and, quick as a flash, Jareth was beside her to break her fall. It wasn't planned, it was pure impulse.

Undeterred, she grasped at his shirt, hauling herself towards his face, where she took great delight in enfolding tufts of his fair hair in her small but strong fists, until he cried aloud in mock pain. This made the girl laugh all the more, and something stirred within the recently-hollowed out recesses of his soul.

He devoted the next moments to making the girl laugh, capers which continued until the clock struck twelve.

_One hour to go._

He grew cold, thinking of the fate which awaited the girl. His magic was more capable now, and he conjured a crystal, searching for her runner - her brother, he suspected. Jareth groaned aloud as he caught sight of the lanky young man. Mired in the Bog of Eternal Stench, hopelessly lost and overwhelmed, there was no way the boy would reach the castle in time to win the challenge and take his sister home. Even with the help of Sir Didymus, the resident guardian of the Bridge, there was no way he would escape the Bog and find his way.

Jareth watched a while longer, rogue thoughts passing through his mind absently - ways in which he himself could help the girl. He attempted some small magic to aid the feeble brother along, and speed up his progress.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" The icy voice cut the air and stopped Jareth in his tracks.

"Father!"

" _Must_  you be such a constant source of disappointment?" he asked impatiently. "I thought this strange fancy of yours had long since passed and you were fit to assume my role, in time. Think this through; if you go against the order of things, what in the world would you do next? Where would you go, for you would not be welcome at my table any longer. Are you not my son at all?"

He looked with disdain at the prince, then swept from the room, his long robes trailing the floor, his words echoing in Jareth's mind -  _where would you go_ _…_ _not be welcome_ _…_

_My own father is ashamed of me_ , he thought, and it hurt.

Jareth turned his attention back to the little girl, absently plucking at a tassel on the cushion, and felt stirrings of anger.

"This is your fault. All your fault. I  _am_  my father's son," he stopped, then shrugged. "That's just the way it is."

His expression hardened, and he swept aside the crystal he'd used to watch the boy, leaving him to his fate, and his sister too. He felt resentful that she'd managed to break through the veneer he'd established, of not caring, and vowed it would not happen again.

He turned his back as time ticked unhesitatingly onward, willing himself not to get involved any further, for it  _was_ futile. He knew nothing beyond this world, of which he was destined to become king.

The irrevocable chimes began, marking the conclusion of thirteen hours. The ultimate ending was inevitable, but for all his bravado, he found himself unable to watch, and he slunk into a shadowed corner as the final chime rang out and all turned to black.

Then followed an unexpected variation.

Simultaneously there was a vivid violet-pink flash, brighter than a burning comet, a terrified high-pitched scream, and a searing pain tore through Jareth's chest, so strong it bought him to his knees and he cried out, in harmony with the echoing cry of the girl.

It lasted only a moment, although it felt like a lifetime. When he looked up from his huddled position, the girl was gone; all that remained was the empty cushion with a baby-shaped impression upon its surface. He rose shakily, and traced the creases - the cushion held onto a glimmer of heat, the only sign the girl had been there at all - and he thought of her innocent smile, the pleasure she'd found in him, the open trust, never imagining the fate he would leave her to.

Sick of the sight of the space she left, sick of the routine, and the expectations placed upon him, he fled. Recovered from the intense pain, but all too aware what it signified, there was only one place he wanted to go. He must look upon his portrait once more.

**o~o~O~o~o**

And so, with this last betrayal of every innocent notion he'd once had - the ideals of the young prince, the boy he was before the Labyrinth - his portrait was complete at last.

The vacant blandness had gone from the eyes, which now shone with tiny pinpricks of white light, life-like and animated; he felt a creeping certainty that should he stand the portrait against the wall, those eyes, knowing and obviously judging, would follow him, silently asking - why?

He would never be free of this ghostly reminder of the price of his acceptance of the Labyrinth. The amiable, benign expression of innocent youth had been blotted out by the addition of the tiniest details, which turned a calm, young face into a more sinister, guarded one.

He'd been robbed of whole pieces of himself - probably the best elements - and he could never win them back, but he would always know, or at least suspect, where they ended up, and he would always face the question of why he didn't stand stronger; why he didn't push for change.

It was enough to play on the sanity of even the strongest mind, and the future king couldn't allow such distractions. He seized the portrait, hastily draped it in the rag-like sheet, and scurried off to a neglected chamber - once a small armour room, now disused and forgotten. The key was in the lock already, rusted and ignored, and Jareth seized this too. He flung the painting into the gloom of the darkest corner, then slammed the door, turning the lock with a creaky squeal, and hurriedly hiding the key. He couldn't dispose of this masterpiece, but he could hide it.

So, they wanted a Goblin King fit to rule the Labyrinth. Well, they'd made one. His lessons were learned, his feelings crushed into insignificance. He would rule with firm decision, and little consideration for mercy, for there was no place for it in this kingdom of theirs.

He resolved all this as he turned his back on the locked door and he never looked back.


	4. A New Start

The night felt endless; still consumed by memories, Jareth roused himself to reality - he was sitting on the cold stone floor, clutching the painting of the young prince, beseeching him silently for he knew not what. He studied the details, and tried to recapture the promise and possibility of his early life, long before he'd ever laid eyes on the Labyrinth.

Limbs aching from remaining in the same position for so long, he stretched out, feeling the seeping cold right to his bones. Had it all been worth it? The kingdom had been a true spectacle, feeding on the wishes and dreams of the humans who ran the endless routes of the Labyrinth. Anything and everything within the scope of human imagination had appeared within the maze, and it had been a true marvel.

But the humans had grown up, and those who followed just didn't dream in the same way - their wishes were different - and so the King was forgotten, as was his kingdom, which had fallen into an unanticipated state of disuse which he no longer questioned…

Until the dreams, and the girl with the imagination vivid enough to brighten his otherworldly reverie and wake him in the middle of the night, finally ready to face the memories of a history he had long ago suppressed.

The Girl…

He struggled to his feet in darkness - the candle had guttered down to a stump hours ago - and felt his way blindly to the far side of the chamber, where he placed the portrait delicately in its rightful position on the wall.

He closed the door, as he had countless times before, only this time was different, for he did it without anger or bitterness, and he no longer took such great pains to ensure the lock was secured and the key secreted away from prying eyes.

His mind was elsewhere…

o~o~O~o~o

He sought the sanctuary of sleep once more, hoping to dream again, and he padded quietly along the never-ending corridor.

The peaceful silence was cut short by a miniature posse of stocky goblins, screeching and howling in delight as they careered around haphazardly.

"Shut up…" one ordered.

"No, YOU shut up!" came a sharp retort.

One of them ploughed straight into the King's legs, causing a great goblin collision as the rest of the party plunged forward, unable to stop in their state of joviality.

"Why don't you ALL shut up," Jareth snarled, and silence descended quickly.

It couldn't last though, for the smallest goblin, still excited, quivered and shook, until to hold back the words any longer would pose serious risk to his very life.

"But… Your Majesty! Please! Someone is about the say THE WORDS!"

He positively bellowed those final words, then clapped a tiny hand over his mouth, looking around furtively, hardly able to believe he'd spoken aloud before the King, who had so recently demanded silence.

On any other day the poor goblin would have been right to feel afraid, but this time the Goblin King settled gleaming mismatched eyes upon him with impatient interest, which was equally terrifying for the little soul, who stood quivering alone as his fellows hastily edged away, forming a circle at a suitable distance to make it clear that  _they_  were not the troublemakers.

Little of their antics even registered with the King - he looked at them, but did not see them, for the prospect of  _The Words_ , after so long, accompanied by the recent dreams he'd experienced stirred him to curiosity.

_Could it truly be? After all this time? A new runner within the Labyrinth?_

He conjured a crystal from nothingness, and focussed his mind on this unknown person of whom the goblin had spoken, half afraid and half delighted at the prospect of what it may reveal.

The smooth, cool surface of the crystal shimmered, and the fathomless depths within remained cloudy and opaque; whatever presence was waiting in that other world, for the moment it eluded him.

He looked harder, and some of the waiting goblins, calmer now, transfixed by the crystal, crept closer, staring.

The mist in the glass cleared, and the Goblin King saw...

_...a human girl, her face framed by thick dark hair, her eyes shining, ablaze with creativity, for she was telling a story. He knew her - she was unmistakable - but this time her story wasn_ _'_ _t pulled from the pages of a book; she was both creator and narrator, and she wasn_ _'_ _t alone. She had a not-so-captive audience of one - a very young boy, held safely in her arms, who couldn_ _'_ _t possibly understand all her words. He howled in frustration and she placed him into his white wooden crib then headed towards a mirror on the dressing table, well and truly engrossed in the story-world she herself was bringing to life, her words forming rapidly..._

The King watched in fascination, willing those words to carry over the paper-thin boundary between their two worlds.

… _had given her certain powers,_ he caught, although what came before was lost in the ether.

A mischievous grin appear on the Goblin King's face.

_Certain powers? Well, if my lady commands it, I can provide certain powers. All you need do is say the right words._

By this time the goblins who had remained behind with the King, wanting to witness this spectacle, were positively bouncing with anticipation, and there was an excited hum around the room. The Goblin King was distracted as he ushered them away, warning them to make ready, for the time may come soon when they were called upon to perform their usual task.

He turned his attention back to the crystal, and watched as the girl left the child and strode purposefully to the bedroom door...

_...She stopped, spun on her heel and narrowed her eyes at the still screaming infant in the crib._

" _I wish the goblins would come and take you away_ _…_ _right now!_ _"_ _she declared, loud and clear..._

A goblin frenzy erupted as the party moved as one, grabbing and pulling each other out of the way, eager to be the one to collect the Labyrinth's new child.

"Wait!" The icy voice, calm and clear, cut through the hubbub and briefly restored some form of order. "Go, quickly; fetch the child, and bring him directly back here. On no account do you go near the full-grown human," he ordered.

_This is one visit I wish to make myself,_ he thought.

With a wicked grin he despatched his minions, and assumed his owl form, for what more could a human daydreamer ask for than a dramatic entrance?

He wanted to impress her, to fortify her belief in his world, for he had seen her face before, although never in waking life. He had never assumed this day would arrive; whilst confronting his past, he rarely considered that a real possibility for a different future may appear.

Ultimately, the game remained the same, but this time the rules would be different, for this girl and her dreams and wishes, vivid enough to rouse a king from slumber in what felt like another life, may provide a chance for a new age in this worn out kingdom.

o~o~O~o~o

The ancient door (with the rusty key still placed in the lock) creaked back on it's hinges, blown by an almost imperceptible breeze. Within the darkened chamber, all but forgotten once more, the portrait of the Goblin Prince, forged with scraps of innocent idealism and bitter experience, and tainted by ages beyond number, seemed to take on a shimmer of its own, as though the facial features trapped within the paint were due to alter again, marking another era in the reign of the Goblin King.

If one looked closely, it became almost possible to believe that the once-troubled Prince showed the beginning hints of a smile.


End file.
